The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: The hunted has tasted blood and grown fangs and realized that she wants to be the hunter. But there can only be one hunter in this game, and if you aren't the predator, then you are the prey.
1. Part One: Challenge

**Part One: Challenge.**

_"All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsions, habit, reason, passion, desire." ~__Aristotle_

* * *

_***Author's Note: Set shortly after the season seven finale.***_

* * *

"I'm leaving." She flopped her hands at her sides, as if trying to find something to do with them.

"Again." It was an added qualifier, not a question.

"Yes. Again." Emily Prentiss looked down at her shoes, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her black jeans. She looked like a child being scolded.

Erin Strauss watched the younger agent, allowing her to squirm in discomfort for a few moments longer. It was petty, childish, cruel—and yet, she couldn't stop herself. It was _justified_. Agent Hotchner had already spoken to his supervisor earlier that day, informing her of Emily Prentiss' imminent departure (_yet again_), and Erin had requested that Agent Prentiss stop by her office at the end of the day. Normally, she wouldn't feel the need to see an outgoing agent—after all, it wasn't as if there was any love lost between her and most of the BAU—but she felt an odd sense of loss at the news. Loss, mixed with an equally-strange feeling of anger and a need for some kind of vengeance. Perhaps on any other day, this wouldn't have been such a hard hit (Emily Prentiss would come back, she always came back, like a boomerang, a bad penny, a patron saint returning from the dead in a cloud of miracles). On any other day, Erin could have simply shrugged, said _c'est la vie_, and moved on.

But this wasn't any other day. Erin Strauss had spent her morning in an AA meeting that had dragged on forever (they always made her want to scream, the endless tales of downward spirals, the wallowing in the past, the utter weakness of it all, her own disgust at finding herself part of this macabre ensemble) and her afternoon had been spent in an administrative meeting, listening to old men with pale faces in dark suits talk code about her life (_we realize this job entails certain pressures…your situation…you are still taking the necessary measures?_). She would have respected them much more if they had simply said what needed to be said, without dancing around it (_you're a fucking drunk, Erin, we need to know you haven't fallen off the wagon again_). She hated herself even more for the fact that as soon as it was over, she came back to her office, fished out a bottle of whiskey from its hiding place in the back of her credenza, and stared at it for two solid hours before pouring herself a glass (just one, not much, just enough to taste, just enough to stop that awful clawing at the back of the throat, that inner demon whispering,_You're finally getting what you deserve, you failure, you fraud!_).

And now, the sparkling cherry on top of the already horrendous fucked-up cake of a day was standing before her, wide-eyed and thin-lipped and waiting for her response. Well, _Special_ Agent Prentiss could wait a little longer.

Across the desk, Emily Prentiss rocked back on her heels, uncertain of how to proceed. She knew this wasn't over, she couldn't walk out just yet. It was Strauss who would decide when to end this conversation and dismiss her—Emily owed her that much (and perhaps even a little bit more), she knew. Despite their rocky past, Strauss had been one of her secret-keepers, one of her only contacts into the world of the BAU while Emily was in witness protection. In fact, Strauss had been the one to personally visit Emily's mother and deliver the awful news—JJ had even told Emily that Strauss had _requested_ the task, and Emily bore the section chief a begrudging sense of respect for that (it was not for the faint of heart, to stand before Elizabeth Prentiss with such news, Emily knew that, better than anyone).

The blonde's eyes were blocked by the lamp light reflecting in her glasses, and Emily couldn't read her, couldn't tell how to continue, how to diffuse the bomb that was certainly ticking away inside that icy frame. So she kept her mouth shut and her head down and waited for Strauss to speak again.

Erin let out a long, tired breath. Emily held hers.

"I took a chance on you. _Twice_." She was still, dangerously still. Emily knew the woman well enough by now to realize the fact that Strauss wasn't moving meant that she was livid, trying to hold back her anger like a weak dam pushing against a roaring river.

"Yes, yes you did," Emily spoke quietly. She could hear the frustration (and the slightest hint of hurt) in Strauss' voice, and it gave her the direction she needed, "And I am very grateful for that. It's been an amazing opportunity."

The BAU section chief let out a little snort of contempt. _An amazing opportunity_. Gods, she truly was the daughter of a diplomat. Such a neat, nice way to package up the past six years. So precise. So clean. So unlike Emily, the smiling, bumbling, sweet-natured but equally fierce and completely off-kilter young woman she'd met all those years ago. So serious. So desperate to prove herself. So determined to be hard-as-nails and unaffected, yet so obviously lost and uncertain. Erin had seen a small part of herself in that young woman—even when Emily had slipped the yoke, refusing to help her bring down Aaron Hotchner, Erin had respected her honorable (albeit aggravating) commitment to her team. She didn't always like Emily (and she was quite certain that the feeling was mutual), but she did respect her. And there weren't many people whom Erin Strauss truly respected.

Still, this respect did not prevent the section chief from holding the wayward agent over the flames. Erin simply waited and watched.

The silence was deafening. Each second seemed like an eternity, and like the condemned merely waiting for the final blow of the blade upon her neck, Emily suddenly felt the need to push forward, to get it over with, in all its ugly, messy glory.

"I, uh, I've got enough personal leave saved up, and Agent Hotchner has agreed to let me use that for my last two weeks," she cleared her throat, looking down at her hands and picking at a hangnail. "I've spent the day wrapping up the rest of my paperwork—all of my open consultations are being reassigned to Agents Morgan and Jareau. I've briefed them on the facts of each case, so the transfer will be as seamless as possible. Of course, I will still be available to consult with them by phone, if they have any further questions."

"I see," Erin said simply. She pushed back another wave of anger—she had been blindsided, left without any control, without any say in the decision, and that wasn't a position in which Erin Strauss enjoyed finding herself. Over the past few years, she'd learned the (very excruciatingly) hard way that it was best to let the BAU handle things on their own, but after so many weeks of sheer helplessness, what normally would have simply been the order of things suddenly seemed like a direct slap to the face, an affront to her position and rank.

Emily continued picking at her hangnail, wincing when she ripped off the offending sliver, but she welcomed the pain as a distraction. A red dot of blood immediately sprung from her cuticle, and she stuck her finger in her mouth without thinking. Then she realized how she must look, glancing sheepishly at Strauss as she pulled her hand back down to her side.

That was all it took to melt Erin's anger—that simple moment, that vulnerable moment in which she saw the young, timid, self-conscious rookie from yesteryear. With a sigh of irritation and defeat, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and rummaged around until she found the mini first-aid kit that she kept on hand (long ago she had learned to be prepared for anything). She pulled out a band-aid and a small tube of antiseptic gel and stepped forward, motioning for Emily to extend her left hand, to which Emily dutifully obeyed.

"I'm sorry," Emily whispered, although at this point, she wasn't even sure what she was sorry for anymore.

Erin didn't respond. She simply dabbed a small amount of disinfectant on the cuticle and set the tube on her desk. She smoothed the bandage around Emily's fingertip.

Even as Strauss cared for her mild injury, Emily felt the older woman mentally drawing away from her, shutting her out as she focused on the mundane task at hand. Her reaction to this coolness came quickly and viscerally, surprising herself with its intensity as it pricked the pit of her stomach. Being ignored was the worst feeling in the world to Emily—she could deal with anger, but indifference was unbearable (it reminded her too much of her childhood, of so many moments spent on the sidelines, praying for someone, _anyone_, to acknowledge her existence). Without thinking, she stilled Strauss' hands with her uninjured one. The blonde's movements stopped, but she didn't look up.

Emily wanted to beg, to plead, to say _look at me_, but she knew how weak that would make her sound, and she didn't want that to be Erin Strauss' last memory of her—as some petulant, needy child—especially when she knew that her abrupt departure was already leaving a bad taste in the section chief's mouth.

Erin could feel the heaviness, the anxious energy radiating from Emily's body, and she knew what the younger woman wanted, what she was waiting for—Emily Prentiss, despite spending most of her life outside the box, still wanted to be forgiven and understood, still wanted absolution for her latest offense. And despite knowing exactly how it felt to be on the other side of a situation like this, Erin Strauss still didn't want to extend forgiveness or compassion to the woman whose warm hands were currently clasping her own—forgiveness would be capitulation, and after a day of being tossed and turned at the whim of others, Erin needed to have some kind of victory. It was a spiteful, petty thing, and yet, she could not stop herself. Emily wanted—no, _needed_—something from her, and that gave Erin power. And right now, that was what Erin needed.

Emily could see the way Strauss' entire body stilled as if she were preparing for some great battle, could feel the waiting settling into the woman's frame, and a faint flutter of irritation simmered under her skin (a familiar feeling when it came to Erin Strauss, the woman whose mere presence usually put Emily on the defensive, who in a cosmically fucked-up twist of fate had just become the one person who could allay Emily's guilt).

So Strauss was going to play hard-to-get. Of course, she would never be kind enough to offer Emily this simple thing, this small act of forgiveness that would cost Strauss nothing yet would mean everything to Emily.

Strauss still wasn't looking at her, still wasn't acknowledging her or the question that she was silently asking—no, she was willfully ignoring Emily, with a cool determination that made Emily want to scream or shake her or do _something_ to make her pay attention.

However, Emily Prentiss was not a three-year-old. She would not scream, she would not stomp or shout or shake Strauss by the shoulders. Instead, she simply reached up and gently removed the glasses from Strauss' face—she still needed to see those orbs that constantly changed grey-green-blue-green-grey, to read them and gauge the damage.

The older woman's jaw tightened at the action, but her eyes remained trained at her hands. She knew that Emily was trying to make her look up, to make her see just how broken up she was about this whole ordeal, but Erin Strauss was not one to be bowled over by a pair of teary doe eyes. It was childish and manipulative and frankly it was beneath Emily Prentiss, the woman who'd been so brazen and so steely against Erin's harshest attempts to bend the younger woman to her will.

Emily happened to be displaying that particular brand of mulishness right now, as she quietly waited for Erin to finally look up. However, her opponent had years' of experience in stubbornness, and in the end Emily proved to be no match for the solemn-faced woman in front of her.

"Chief Strauss." Emily still used her title, still deferred to her on some level, but the unspoken plea in her words was not lost.

Setting her mouth in a thin line of impatience, Erin steeled herself and locked her eyes onto Emily's dark ones.

"Are you happy now, Agent Prentiss?" Erin couldn't resist the barb, though she kept her voice flat and unfeeling.

Emily blinked as if she'd been slapped in the face. As much as she tried to remain unaffected by Strauss' coldness, it was that simple question which contained the root of all her problems, and she felt her eyes filling up with unwanted tears as she admitted the truth.

"No," her voice quavered. "I'm not happy at all."

"I don't see how that's any of my concern," Erin replied smoothly, reaching out to take back her glasses. Emily's hands moved, too, stopping Erin's by grabbing her wrists. Erin tried to jerk away, but the brunette's grip only tightened. A beat passed as the two sized each other up.

"Let. Go." Erin's voice was low, deadly, feral.

For a moment that seemed like a small eternity, Emily didn't move.

"Agent Prentiss." There was a warning in Strauss' tone, the low guttural rumbling of a cat before the hiss, the dark clouds before the storm. She could see the slight flicker of some unnamed emotion across the younger woman's face—Emily obviously realized that she'd overstepped her bounds, but something kept her from retreating to safety. Despite her irritation, Erin found herself curious to know what could possibly induce such odd behavior in someone as infamously detached as Emily Prentiss.

"Please." There was an edge to Emily's tone—a hardness, something that would not be denied. Her thin fingers were biting into the flesh at Erin's wrists, and in her dark eyes lay a desperate, childish pleading. She didn't say what she needed, didn't directly say what she was asking for, yet Erin understood, because she simply bit her lip for a moment, finally overcome by Emily's pitiful state—after all, how many times had she stood in that same place, begging for forgiveness and understanding from others, begging just to be heard? She knew how it felt to be unhappy and to be made even more miserable by knowing that her unhappiness was poisoning others as well.

"O…OK," Erin relented. Like Emily, she didn't speak outright, because some things didn't have to be spoken—they were understood and accepted.

"OK." Emily nodded and Erin mimicked the nod in confirmation. The brunette eased her hold, but she didn't fully let go. Erin was surprised to realize that she really didn't mind.

"I can't stay here," Emily admitted. "I'm…I can't…."

Suddenly she was at a loss for words. She could speak six different languages, and yet they all escaped her when it came to the task of describing the hurricane inside her chest. She looked down, focused on the perfectly rounded and polished nails curled delicately before her (so different from her own bitten and torn nails, she thought shamefully).

She took another deep breath, "When I was away, I wanted to be back here more than anything. I thought this was where I belonged, this was my family, my purpose. After all those years of feeling like some deformed piece that never fit in any puzzle, I had finally found the place where I clicked."

Her throat tightened as she blinked back tears, but she forced herself to keep going, to keep talking, to keep pushing the bad stuff out, to keep draining the wound in her soul.

"But when I came back, that feeling…that feeling was gone," she swallowed again. "I don't belong here anymore. I feel this…_thing_ clawing around inside my chest, needing to get away. I'm trapped, and this is the only way that I know to get out."

She suddenly realized that she'd been rubbing her thumbs in circles on Erin's wrists, the skin smooth and cool to the touch like the black polished stones she kept in a bowl on her coffee table at home, and she dropped her hands, blushing at her actions. She didn't know where this came from, this sudden comfort in being so physically close to a woman who hadn't been much more than a passing acquaintance, a distant friend of her mother's, at times even an adversary.

Erin didn't say anything, but Emily heard a hitch in her breathing and looked up. She was shocked to see those ever-changing eyes (_blue, they almost seemed grey-blue right now_) glistening with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," was Erin's only response. She blinked, and the tears seemed to disappear without ever slipping over her lashes. She was used to that sort of thing—reining in her emotions, stamping back anger, pushing back tears. But her tears weren't entirely for Emily's plight—that gentle pressure on her skin had been the most reverent touch she'd received in years, and as soon as that contact was broken, she felt a slight pang of sadness (sadness tinged with something else, something unnamed). The softness of that touch had stopped her brain for a full beat—she'd missed half of what the other woman was saying, had to force herself back into the present, trying to calm her pulse and not act like a tittering fool over a simple, innocent touch.

Part of her was uncertain and afraid of the emotions roiling around in her hammering chest, and another part of her wanted to push forward, to explore these tumbling new feelings, to seek out the source and to dig into the rich, dark earth and find the roots of whatever fragile thing just bloomed in this darkened, claustrophobic office. Erin had always prided herself on being an alpha personality, a conqueror, a seeker, a claimer—she didn't run from fear, she chased it, because the best defense was a good offense. In this moment, Emily Prentiss was something fearful, something dark and unexplored and untamed and that gave her power over Erin and that was an imbalance that needed to be corrected.

Of course, the source of all this uncertainty was completely unaware of it. All Emily saw was the hesitation, the step back, the change of breath, and the flicker of something unreadable behind those eyes.

"I'm sorry," Emily fumbled again, and once again, she wasn't really sure what she was apologizing for. She rubbed her forehead in agitation, "I don't know what I was thinking—I just—I just needed you to understand why I'm leaving. I don't even know why I need you to understand, I just…do."

A beat passed as Emily tried to sort through her own muddled thoughts and Erin simply watched and waited. Emily pressed her lips together, finally finding an answer, "I guess I feel like I owe you an explanation, because you did take a chance on me, and I don't want you to think that I was ungrateful."

"Ungrateful," Erin spoke the word slowly, as if testing its weight on the tip of her tongue. "Interesting choice of word."

Emily had backed down, apologized again, and the power imbalance had been temporarily corrected. And yet it wasn't enough. It should have been, but it wasn't. All day, Erin had been confronted with the realization that she had lost what little control and autonomy she'd had in life, and gods be damned if she didn't extract a pound of flesh from someone, somewhere. For the first time today, she had some kind of superiority, some kind of upper hand, and it was unfortunate that the person in her cross-hairs happened to be Emily Prentiss. But then again, the tiger did not weigh the merits of the rabbit before it devoured its prey—it simply used its fangs, its muscles and claws and instincts, and did what it was created to do. It wasn't the rabbit's fault, but it wasn't the tiger's either. It was simply the way things were.

Erin was a tiger, her teeth were meant for flesh, and she didn't see it as any fault of character that she remained true to her nature. She wouldn't harm Emily (not much, not really, just bat her around a bit, ease a little frustration), but she wouldn't deny herself the chance to get something out of it.

"I know that I only got this job in the first place because you thought I'd be an asset for you." Emily admitted softly. They had talked about it once, when she was first hired (the first time she resigned, too) but it had never been spoken of since.

A wry smile twisted across Erin's lips. "Except you didn't play by my rules, did you?"

Emily's dark eyes flicked back up to Erin's face, her brows set in a hard line, "I'm sorry I wasn't the bureaucrat you wanted me to be."

This amused Erin, because it was obvious from the younger woman's tone that she was, in fact, the opposite of sorry. So they were going to get to the meat of it, then. The old slights were going to be dragged out, discussed, dissected, the whole Twelve-Step bullshit.

"Forgive me for daring to mar your pristine moral character with my _unseemly_ offer," Erin leaned in slightly as she breathed the word, her head cocking to the side, accentuating her sarcastic tone (and yet something in her demeanor and her almost-teasing inflection made it seem playful rather than outright aggressive—playful and somehow more dangerous, though Emily wasn't certain how that could be possible).

Then Strauss seemed to switch personalities, turning on her heel and tossing her glasses back onto her desk with a careless air as her voice became flat and bored again, "I don't care much for ancient history, Emily."

She shot another dark glance over her shoulder, "And I care even less for sanctimony."

Emily gave a derisive snort at that obvious understatement. She couldn't understand this woman or what she was trying to get from Emily (and it was the not knowing that frustrated her more than Strauss' actual actions did), and her exasperation was building with every second (not that Emily had any kind of legendary patience to begin with, certainly not where this woman was concerned). Emily kept her tone neutral, although the emotion danced just beneath the surface as she quietly decreed, "Spoken like a true politician."

Erin turned back around slowly. She may not be a master profiler, but she knew enough about human nature in general and enough about Emily's life in particular to know where to land her next volley, "Don't confuse me with your mother, Emily."

The brunette ducked her head at the hit, biting back some retort from flying out of her lips, and Erin felt a slight prick of delight. Emily was watching her tongue—she was still playing to Erin as the powerful one in this scenario.

The emotions were compartmentalized, the mask clicked into place, Emily's shoulders straightened and her eyes came back to Erin's.

"I've already submitted my papers through Agent Hotchner; I just thought you deserved hear it from me, in person," her voice was paced, noncommittal. She made a move for the door.

"I don't believe I dismissed you, Agent Prentiss," Erin's voice stopped her. They were back to official titles and last names. It was a bully move, a deliberate reminder of rank, but there was something else in her tone that pulled Emily back, a slight pleading, a hint of regret (_please don't go, not like this_). It was a jerk of the chain, a gut reaction, and even though Emily knew that Strauss technically wasn't her boss anymore, she still obeyed.

Emily turned back around. Regardless of the softness dancing at the edge of her tone, the blonde's face was still set in an expression of annoyance.

"You're right—I did deserve to be told in person," Strauss' arms crossed over her chest. A faint flush had already begun to creep across the skin peeking out from the opening of her button-down blouse, and Emily realized that the woman was much more upset than she'd first thought. Her voice was a low rumble of displeasure, "But I also deserved to hear it long before now. You've been back for _months_. You've been looking for a way out for _months_. I could have spent that time finding a suitable replacement, smoothing the transition, but now I'm stuck, scrambling to find someone without a proper vetting process, because the longer it takes, the longer I'm leaving the team with one less agent—one less valuable, knowledgable, _much needed_ agent."

Each word, weighted, calculated, measured. Ounce by ounce she would take her pound of flesh. It had been such a long time since she'd played this game (_push, pull, advance, retreat_) and Erin was delighted to learn that her muscles were still in good working order. She'd almost pushed Emily too far, almost lost her—Emily was trying to leave before the game was finished, but Erin had softened her tone, switched gears (not really apologizing, she never really apologized, she let her tone do that, let the other person infer her remorse). Emily had been pulled back in, and so she had continued her advance (_one step back, three steps forward_).

Emily, of course, was a bright girl, and she noticed this sudden switch, her brows twisting in confusion as she tried to piece it together.

Then, wonder of all wonders, Erin Strauss suddenly grinned, as if she suddenly remembered some great secret (the moment of revelation was always her favorite part—the moment when they silently recognized that she had set a trap, that she had bested them, that _she_ was the assured victor).

Emily took a small step back, caught off-guard by the obvious amusement dancing in those light green eyes again (_yes, they looked green now, green like the grass in early spring_). She felt like she was standing on the precipice, taking that last breath before plunging into the rushing winds of the unknown, and yet (_and yet and yet and yet_) there was a pin-prick of curiosity, an almost-unheard voice in the back of Emily's mind that whispered, _We should follow this trail and see where it goes_.

So she did. She stepped back, back to the woman with the dancing eyes, back into the lion's den, the tiger's lair, the soft danger of the unknown. The teasing, the smile, these things told her that a new game was being played, and she didn't know the rules just yet, but something inside her said that she wanted to know them—wanted to know them very badly.

She wasn't sure what Strauss wanted. Chess had taught her never to make a move until she was sure, until she had played out all the possible scenarios in her mind. So she waited.

Erin saw the anxiety in those dark eyes and an amused hum rumbled in her throat. She moved forward, the corner of her mouth twitching as she fought back a grin, "You look nervous, Agent Prentiss."

"I'm not."

"Prove it," Erin stepped forward again, before she could even register the words coming from her own mouth. Her pressure was up; she wanted a response, a fight, something, _anything_. She'd tasted blood (and something darker, something more dangerous) and she wasn't ready to let it go. Erin knew it was foolish, brash, wrong, but Emily had lit this torch, had started down this path, and Erin would be damned if she didn't see this through. It was the least she could do.

"What?" Emily could hear the breathlessness in her own voice, and she wanted to kick herself for it. Her mouth was dry and her heart was hammering in her throat and she willed herself to look into Strauss' eyes, not at her lips (_don't be so easily read_) or the honey-colored pillar of her throat (_don't look don't look don't look_).

Of course, Erin's eyes had been trained on the other woman's face; she watched the whole thing and felt a slight twitter of delight. She had learned long ago that there were different kinds of power, different ways to hold control, and though this hadn't been the reaction that she had expected (from Emily, from her own self), it certainly was a path worth following—at least for a little while longer, at least until things got too close to that point of no return.

Emily forced her eyes upward to meet Strauss', but what she saw in those eyes was just as disconcerting—that hint of amusement, that naughty little glint. She'd seen it once before, when Strauss had been on a case with them and had slipped out of her tight-ass section chief mode long enough to crack some risqué little quip—Rossi had said something in a low tone (the kind you use for lovers, for delicious secrets and inside jokes that make others blush) and she'd tossed him that look over her shoulder (the kind you use for lovers, for delicious secrets and oh-you-naughty-boy-you-shouldn't-haves). Emily had been immediately intrigued by this rare glimpse into another side of Erin Strauss, and for the first time, she'd seen her as something more, something solid, of flesh and bone and weight and warmth and taste. She'd seen her as a woman.

She'd be lying if she said that since that moment, she hadn't thought more about what the Ice Queen of Quantico was like outside those concrete walls. But that was a passing thought, something that only flitted across her mind when the woman was near her.

She was near her now. Very near.

"What?" Erin mimicked her breathy question, her eyes wide with feigned shock, her thick dark lashes giving her the appearance of a porcelain doll. There was that light teasing, that mocking air to her smile again, that self-satisfied smugness that could only be accurately described as _Erin Strauss_, and Emily found it irritating.

So she took the challenge. She proved it.

* * *

_"__Accept the challenges so that you can feel the exhilaration of victory.__" ~__George S. Patton_

* * *

_***Author's Note: This is actually one of the very first CM fics I wrote (it was originally written before season eight even aired), but for various reasons, I kept this one on the back-burner for a while….and obviously, smut ahoy—so if that's not your thing, this is the part where you leave the room.***_


	2. Part Two: Turn

**Part Two: Turn.**

_"Love begins with an image; lust with a sensation." ~Mason Cooley_

* * *

If Emily Prentiss had one major character flaw, it would be her own sense of nihilism and self-annihilation, the way she couldn't seem to leave any situation without destroying any bit of good that remained—perhaps it was a safety mechanism, a way of keeping herself from looking back with wistfulness or longing, a way of ensuring that she ran into her next phase of life with open arms, grateful for some kind of refuge from the catastrophes of her own making. Tonight, however, it was definitely not a shield, but rather a weapon. Her fingers were trembling, looking for kindling, for anything to burn, and Erin Strauss had given her just that—a chance to destroy something, which she took with both hands.

It took a moment for Erin to register what was happening—Emily had lunged forward, grabbing the back of Erin's head and pulling her mouth forcefully against her own. Erin let out a small gasp of surprise and Emily used it to push her tongue into the older woman's mouth, feeling a spark of electricity when it brushed against Erin's.

Her green eyes looked up and she was surprised to see Emily's brown ones still locked onto hers, hard and challenging. Emily's hands moved down her spine to the curve of her waist, pulling her closer as her tongue forged deeper in.

The pressure of the younger woman's body against hers made Erin's knees quake and suddenly she realized with utter clarity that she'd unleashed a tempest without fully thinking of the consequences. She'd pushed without any thought of being shoved back.

Emily's fingers dug into her flesh and Erin tried to stop the moan that filled her throat, but a whimper still escaped. She closed her eyes in shame (_a point for Emily, she found a weak spot_), but she could still feel the brunette's smile against her mouth. She'd been the first to flinch, the first to cave, and that made her angry. But the best defense was a good offense, and that was the only tactic Erin Strauss knew—meet all force with equal or greater force.

So she went on offense, grappling the lapels of Emily's jacket with both hands, pulling her further into her mouth, darting her own tongue around the curve in Emily's. She felt the younger woman's body stiffen in surprise, but it quickly melted back against her own. She leaned back, feeling Emily's body pull with hers, feeling the wanting, the need to stay connected, and now it was her turn to smile.

She broke the embrace, a smirk still on her lovely features, "You're very good at taking orders, Agent Prentiss."

Her lips were red, raw and pounding from Emily's attack, and Emily couldn't tear her eyes away from them. They were tart and smoky, tasting of whiskey and sin and darkness and something unknown.

"I…I do what I can, ma'am," Emily replied, deciding to follow this line of conversation wherever it went. Strauss had started the game, she'd set the rules, and though Emily had no idea what either was, she would play them right down to a tee.

This retort earned her a low chuckle from the older woman, who dragged the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth. Her eyes (_deep grey now, the color of the sea before a storm_) were focused lower, on the heavy pulse at the base of Emily's neck, and the wonder in her eyes was unmistakable (_I do that to her, I can create that in her_).

Emily's eyes flicked over to the credenza behind Strauss' desk, where a single tumbler sat. There wasn't an alcohol bottle beside it (Erin had stashed it away again), but she could still see the sheen of moisture at the bottom of the glass. She wondered how many drinks she'd had, how far gone she was—too far to know what she was doing?

Erin's gaze followed her own, and she seemed to read the younger woman's mind. Briefly, she flitted to the fearful thought that Agent Morgan had said something, had warned Emily of her problem, but Morgan didn't seem like a gossip and Emily didn't wear that pitiful expression that most people did when confronted with her alcoholism.

"I've had a nightcap. One." Her light eyes found Emily's dark ones, and she tried to telepath the meaning behind those words.

Emily seemed to understand, because she nodded quickly, blinking and swallowing back a wave of nerves as the full impact of the situation hit her like a tidal wave (_this is so wrong she's a superior my superior what are you doing Emily this is a bridge you don't want to burn_).

But that was just it. Strauss wasn't her superior. Not anymore. And this was a bridge she wanted to burn—a bridge she wanted to set fire to and dance about with fear and wonder at the delicious heat. She wanted to watch the flames rise, to let the smoke and soot tangle in her dark tresses, to let it change the color of her skin and cloud her eyes and muddy her judgment, and in the morning she could wash it all away if she wanted to, pretend it never happened in the cold light of day. But daybreak was ages away, and right now, she wanted this much more than she wanted a clean conscience.

"You don't have to do this," Erin spoke softly. She'd seen the hesitation, the fear and the uncertainty, and it had been a stab at her heart. Yes, she'd wanted to punish Emily in some way, to make her realize what she was truly doing by leaving, to make her understand the frustration and disappointment—but she didn't want to hurt her, certainly never wanted to be the cause of the fear in those big brown eyes. Suddenly she felt stupid—she was a bully, an idiot, and oh, gods above, why did she do it? She fumbled for an explanation, a way to mend whatever wound she'd placed on this woman's soul, "I would never…I don't even know why…I'm…I'm sorry."

She stumbled back, moving towards the door to open it, to release the poor caged creature she'd pushed and shoved into reacting, this meek animal who'd been baited into attacking.

Emily was beside her again, her hand clasping over Erin's as it clutched the doorknob.

"No."

Erin looked up, surprised by the response.

Emily didn't move her hand. She leaned forward, her dark eyes seeking out those light ones, which were reflecting back her own feelings of fear and uncertainty and something else (_wanting, please let that something else be wanting, the same wanting flickering across my skin like heat lightning)_.

"I just want to be sure," Emily spoke in a low tone. "I just don't want it to be something…I didn't think you felt that way, and I just—"

"I didn't," Erin gushed. Her heart plummeted at the crestfallen expression on Emily's face. "I mean, I didn't think I felt that way before, it just…something just happened. And now I don't know."

Emily simply nodded in understanding.

"What…what about you?" There was a strange, almost hopeful, note in Erin's voice. "Did you feel this way before?"

"No. At least I don't think so," Emily pulled her hand away, and Erin flinched at the loss of heat. "I've never thought about it, I guess."

Erin gave a small nod. Her eyes strayed to the pale flesh of Emily's chest, to the light, almost indiscernible scar over her left breast that fluttered with her uneven breath (_that monster left that mark on her, that man who is responsible for Emily's departure, for her fear and uncertainty and displacement...gods, I'd kill him if he weren't already dead_). Erin realized that this would be the last time she saw that scar, the last chance she had to touch that flesh, to find out just what this little chemical thing was between them, the thing that had always been there but never explored, never tested like this.

"Let's not think," Erin suggested, leaning closer. She could smell the tang of whiskey on Emily's breath—the taste from her own mouth, the taste she'd put in Emily's mouth with her own tongue—and heat flooded her body again. She'd been attacked by that mouth, she'd reclaimed it, branded it and made it her own, and that alone intoxicated her brain more than the shot of whiskey had.

Emily swiveled and pressed her back against the heavy metal door, her eyes lowering to Erin's mouth again, where a small feline smile now danced around the edges. Her chest rose and fell erratically as she gave a quick nod of acquiescence.

Erin gave a low hum of approval, her grin widening. She was a hunter, a natural born predator, and every fiber of her being sung at the promise of the chase. During the twenty-six years of her marriage, she'd rerouted those instincts into her career field, using them in a solely professional setting, and they had served her well (so well, through promotions and unexpected victories and firestorms of every shape and size). But her marriage was dead and buried, and those instincts were starting to push (_demand, scream, force_) their way back into other arenas. She'd never chased a woman (_never kissed one, never wanted one like this_), but that only added to the challenge and Erin was nothing if not one born and built for challenges.

She placed both hands firmly on the door, effectively hemming the brunette in. She leaned forward, her lips tracing the curve of the jawline, the lean line of the neck, the slight indention of the collarbone that peeked out from beneath the tousled t-shirt and jacket, never making full contact, but simply ghosting her breath along the lines, taking in the scent of her, the light pulse of her veins, the way goosebumps spread across the pale flesh that sang and tingled with anticipation. She heard Emily's head softly bump against the door as she looked up, arched forward, silently begging for Erin's lips to actually touch her skin.

She slowly (_tantalizingly, achingly, cruelly_) made her way back up the neck, smiling as she heard Emily bite back a sigh of frustration (no, she'd never done this to a woman, but in some ways, a woman was just like a man, and that was a creature whom she knew how to unravel quite beautifully). With a soft sigh of her own (the breath rippling across Emily's skin, hot and damp and promising so many more dark things to come), she leaned in, placing a kiss on the soft flesh behind her ear before traveling just a few inches down to sink her teeth into her neck—a light, tentative nip, which was quickly salved by her hot tongue. Emily whimpered and Erin hummed again, knowing she'd hit her mark. She used her teeth again, harder, and the whimper became a gasp as Emily's head rocked forward and her own lips found purchase on Erin's shoulder, which was sadly covered by clothing. That would not do. That would not do at all.

Emily gently pushed the offending fabric away, being careful not to disturb her former boss, who was slowly making her way back down her neck, one bite, one deep sensuous massage of the tongue at a time. She took a moment to marvel at the lightly freckled skin before slipping her arms under Erin's, snaking them back up her shoulder blades and pulling the other woman forward as her mouth made contact, mimicking Erin's movements by planting her own teeth in Erin's flesh.

A laugh rumbled in Erin's throat, rippling against Emily's pulse like a gentle wave at the edge of the sand. However, Emily did not think that it was such a laughing matter and she suddenly sucked hard on the skin, causing Erin to gasp in surprise and the slightest hint of pain. When she pulled away, she could already see the purple and red brewings of a hickey, and she fought back a self-satisfied smile. Erin would have a mark to remember her by in the morning, and for some reason, that pleased her (_You can't wash it away in the morning, I've staked my claim on you, you can't pretend I wasn't here, I've left my signature scrawled across your flesh and I'll leave many more before this is through, oh yes oh yes I'll leave no doubt that I was here_).

She traced her tongue to the base of Erin's throat, pushing the woman's chin upward so that she had unrestricted access as she sucked and pulled at the skin, her hands slowly moving back around, sliding up to her breasts, taking a moment to knead them before traveling further up, wrapping around Erin's neck and pulling her forward again, making more marks, staking more claims (_I was here, and here, and here_).

Erin grabbed Emily's wrists, pushing her back, pinning them against the door as she lunged forward again, capturing Emily's mouth with her own and pressing her body against the younger woman's, pushing her into the door.

For a moment, the brunette surrendered, her knees buckling as she sank, lowering her body until Erin fully hovered over her (_it's what you want, isn't it, you want me to capitulate, you want to know that you've caught your prey_).

But Erin's teeth came out again; she bit Emily's bottom lip, dragged her teeth over it, bruised it as she pushed further in with her tongue (_not yet, not yet, give me something more, don't be so easily won_).

Emily understood the unspoken request, and she gladly obliged—Erin gave a gasp of surprise as Emily surged forward with a guttural growl of her own, pushing the woman back several feet and breaking all physical contact completely.

The blonde stumbled backwards, blindly reaching out behind her and catching herself on the edge of a chair. There was a moment of stunned silence.

Emily rose to her full height, and suddenly it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Her eyes never left Erin's face (_those eyes so wide with shock and lust, that mouth so red, so open and wanting_) as her hand slid across the metal plate behind her, finding the doorknob and locking the door. A wicked grin (oh, she's a hunter, too, she can chase and dive and catch her prey between her talons) blossomed across her face as she stepped forward with one weighted, deliberate step. The step of a panther who knows that it has cornered the frightened fawn, the step of a lioness whose prey is already bleeding and panting on the ground, the assured movements of a victor.

Erin felt her knees quake again (with anticipation, with delicious anticipation) and she realized that, once again, she'd underestimated the vulnerable brunette with the Bambi eyes. She was quite certain that the tables were turned. Emily's eyes were dark, darker than she'd ever seen them, her lips red from Erin's own lips and teeth—the hunted had tasted blood and grown fangs and realized that she wanted to be the hunter. But there can only be one hunter in this game, and if you aren't the predator, then you are the prey.

* * *

_"__This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.__" ~__Oscar Wilde_


	3. Part Three: Colonization

**Part Three: Colonization.**

"_Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes._" ~_Marquis de Sade_

* * *

Erin's eyes flicked to the blinds, silently grateful for the fact that they were drawn and shuttered—she hadn't given a single thought to being seen until just now. But it was late and almost everyone else was gone.

Her dark hunter took another step forward, the hunger in her eyes unmistakable. Erin Strauss could admit that she'd always thought of Emily as an attractive woman, but gods above, now she was absolutely mesmerizing, in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.

"Take off your blouse," her voice was deeper than Erin had ever heard before, harsher, more insistent.

The section chief steadied herself, willing her hands not to tremble with anticipation and nerves as she slowly began to unfasten the long row of buttons. Emily's eyes followed her hands, biting her lip as inch by precious inch of skin came into view. Erin tugged her shirt from the waist of her pencil skirt, pulling the shirt open to reveal another layer of taupe-grey silk. Emily smiled (_she wears a full slip, of course she does, it's so proper and feminine and utterly Strauss_).

Erin smiled sheepishly, uncertain of the meaning behind Emily's grin but taking it as a positive sign. She reached behind her to unzip her skirt, and suddenly the phone on her desk rang.

Her entire body tensed, as if someone had fired a shot—the harsh electronic buzz of the telephone seemed to shatter the entire room. Emily didn't look at it. She kept her eyes on Erin's face.

"Don't answer it," she whispered, as if whoever was calling could hear her.

"I-I have to," Erin's pulse was racing double-time. With one last look of apology, she moved across the room, leaving her blouse on the back of the chair. She snatched up the receiver, trying to regain control over her voice, "Strauss."

Emily could hear the warm hum of a male voice over the line, but she was much too distracted by the light freckles on Erin's back, made more noticeable by the faintest glow of a tan (she had been to the beach, baring all that lovely soft skin to the world, or maybe out working in her garden in a spaghetti-strap sundress—a rare thought, to imagine Strauss with a life outside the Bureau—either way it looked golden and delicious and Emily's mouth actually ached for a chance to taste it).

"Yes, I am aware of the situation," Erin's voice held a faint trace of frustration. She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Emily felt a swell of satisfaction, knowing she was the one who mussed her hair, the one who had Strauss standing in her office with her blouse tossed across a chair, with deep red marks on her neck and shoulder, blood pumping and head humming.

_But that's not all I can do_. Emily bit back another wicked grin as she quietly moved closer to the older woman.

"She was in my office less than half an hour ago, making her excuses."

Oh, so the conversation was about her. Emily knew that Strauss must be talking to Hotch.

"Yes, well, I can't say that I'm exactly thrilled about your decision to let her take the rest of her leave, instead of keeping her in the field until we at least have a list of replacements ready, but I suppose that ship has sailed."

Apparently Erin wasn't happy (_again_). There was always a way to make up for that. Emily knelt down, placing a hand on each of Erin's ankles. She felt Erin's muscles tense, freeze, then relax again. Her hands traveled up...up...up, following the curve of her hips, taking a moment to appreciate the well-rounded derriere that was still sadly covered in tights.

Erin lightly kicked at her, not even bothering to look down as she continued her conversation with Hotch, "Well, I don't see how that's going to help. Your team is still down an agent."

Emily shook her head. Someone really needed to learn manners. Her hands continued their upward trek, following the inward curve to Erin's waist, her fingers slipping over the edge and pulling down her underwear and tights in one smooth movement.

If Erin noticed, she didn't say so. This woman was a consummate actress.

Emily lightly tapped her ankle (_lift your foot so that I can take these off you_).

Erin locked her knees (_over my dead body_).

Emily simply chuckled, taking a moment to lean against Erin's left leg, giving the now-exposed skin on behind her knee a light kiss. No response. Cruel, cruel woman.

"Do we at least have a short list?" Erin gave another huff of impatience. She couldn't very well hang up the phone, but the dark-haired devil at her feet was certainly making it hard to concentrate.

Emily's left hand gripped the edge of the desk for stability as her right slowly traveled up Erin's left leg again—slowly, deliberately, weighted, measured, perfectly paced. She felt the muscles tense beneath her fingers and grinned again. So she _was_ getting through.

Erin bowed her head, biting her lip. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to listen to the voice on the other end of the line, "Yes, yes, that's fine…could you narrow it down to five or six and send me the list in the morning? I can't imagine we'd get very far with it tonight."

Emily's right hand stopped to massage the smooth skin of Erin's inner thigh. She could feel the heat radiating from Erin's core, but she wasn't ready to go there just yet—half the fun was in the chase. She nuzzled Erin's outer leg through the thick fabric of her charcoal pencil skirt, using her teeth and applying just enough pressure for Erin to feel it. The blonde leaned forward again, trying to move away, and Emily laughed silently, slightly raising herself on her heels just enough to nip her former boss' ass, which elicited a small yelp of surprise.

"Oh, no, nothing, I'm still here," she spoke into the phone, although this time, there was no hiding the breathiness in her voice.

Emily could feel that the conversation was winding to a close, so she rose slowly, her right hand staying firmly on Erin's upper thigh as her left traveled up her side, slipping over the older woman's breast and giving it a slight squeeze as she kissed her shoulder. Her fingers finally danced across Erin's opening, their tips instantly drenched. She didn't enter (_not now, not yet, one wrong sound could give the whole thing away_). Her reward was one small, delicious shiver, a flash of those stormy eyes glancing to heaven for some kind of deliverance.

"That's fine. Tomorrow, then."

There it was. The end of the conversation—just in time for Emily to pounce. Erin had barely placed the phone back in its cradle before she felt the long, thin fingers plunge in, without ceremony or warning, and she gave out a small cry of surprise, followed by the breathless moan that had been building in her chest for the past two minutes. She felt Emily's mouth on her neck, sucking at her earlobe, felt those fingers curl inside her and those knuckles press against her walls, finding that perfect bundle of nerves which sent another shot of fire coursing through her body (_oh those fingers, _she could write sonnets to those fingers, that hand, sonnets and songs and odes and oh gods it was a simple touch and she could already feel herself tightening, quivering in response).

"Not—not like this," she pleaded, her own voice sounding harsh and foreign to her ears (_gods dammit, she has me pleading_). Her skirt was bunched around her hips, her tights twisted around her ankles, her slip falling off her shoulders and one breast falling out of her bra and all she could think was, _Not like this_.

Emily stopped, disengaging her lovely hand (and Erin muffled a sigh of disappointment at the loss) and stepping back. She waited for Erin to step out of her heels, pull her feet out of her tights, leaving them in a puddle on the floor with her underwear, and turn around.

The sad thing about this little exchange was that Emily had been unable to see the full effect she'd had on the older woman, and when Erin turned around, red cheeks and flushed chest, simmering eyes and messy hair, Emily felt another wave of warmth pass through her.

She stepped forward, her hands lightly cupping Erin's face as the pads of her thumbs brushed over the skin, mapping out her cheekbones and temples with an odd sense of wonderment. It was as if she was seeing the older woman for the first time, and she was fascinated by what she saw.

Erin could feel the warm stickiness on the brunette's fingers, could smell the dark allure of her own arousal, could see the hunger in those dark eyes, and it only heightened the flames licking up the insides of her body. She gave a soft whine, pulling the younger woman back to her, engulfing her lips once again. She was pulling the jacket off Emily's shoulders, her mind pulsing with one thought (_I want to make you ache for me the way I ache for you, I want to make your eyes wild and your breathing pound, I want to make you moan for me, for me, for me, only me_).

The jacket landed somewhere near Erin's blouse, and Emily's nimble (_wonderful, wonderful_) fingers quickly unbuttoned and unzipped the section chief's skirt, pulling it down with a quick, forceful jerk. Erin went for Emily's top, but Emily pushed her hands back down, holding her by her wrists and guiding her to the small black leather sofa that rested in the corner of the office. The back of Erin's knees hit the edge, but she didn't sit down. Emily pulled back, her hand lovingly tracing the outline of the blonde's collarbone, her shoulders, her arms, as she pushed the thin straps of the slip down, over her hips, onto the floor.

Erin held her breath, her body's every flaw flying to the forefront of her mind, and the single lamp that was still on in her office suddenly felt much too bright and harsh. She heard Emily's quick intake of breath and finally dared to look up at the younger woman.

It was obvious from the look in Emily's dark eyes that whatever she saw, she certainly liked. She moved closer, her arms reaching behind to unfasten the clasp of Erin's bra, pulling away the last piece of armor. The blonde gave another light sigh as her last defense came down and cool air rushed against her skin, wincing slightly but keeping her eyes on Emily's face (_this is all I have, this is what I have to work with, please be kind_).

Emily stepped back again. Unlike Erin, this was not the first woman she'd had sex with, and she was always amazed at how each body was entirely different, its own world with its distinct curves and dips, valleys and ridges, colors and shades. What was most surprising (but then again, not really) was the light indentation above Erin's right hip—the mark of an appendectomy scar. Emily felt a soft smile slip across her lips (_so she's got scars, too_).

"What?" Erin's eyes became stormy grey again as she cocked her head to one side in confusion, her hands almost-subconsciously moving to shield herself.

"Oh, please don't," Emily breathed, reaching to still the hands that dared to block this lovely view. Lightly, slowly, with the same reverence she'd first touched her wrists, she trailed her fingers down Erin's neck, past the swell of her breasts, between the part in her ribcage, down to her bellybutton, stopping just an inch below. It was there that she knelt and placed a single, soft kiss. Erin felt another rush of warmth in her core, and it was all moving too slowly, too deliciously slow, it was too much and not enough and she didn't know if she wanted more because she didn't want this particular moment to end. Her hands sought Emily's dark locks, her fingers clutched at them, pushed further down, sought the soft fabric of her t-shirt, tugged gently at it—she suddenly realized that she was completely naked and Emily was still very much clothed. The imbalance of power was there again and it was almost painful now.

She felt Emily smile against her hipbone as she planted another warm kiss on her skin. The brunette reached down and pulled off her t-shirt in one easy move, smiling up into those sea colored eyes. Her bra was as black as her jeans, as black as her hair, as black as her eyes, which only served to accentuate the porcelain skin around it, making it glow like some silver-skinned Hollywood goddess from the forgotten age of red lips and white stoles, dahlias in dark curls and satin evening gloves. Erin suddenly understood why marble-skinned beauties adorned the covers of romance novels—there was something absolutely erotic about skin so smooth, so pale, so _perfect_.

Emily stood, drawing Erin closer, new continents of skin meeting for the first time—the dark shifting around the light, the golden melding to the silver. Erin shivered at the sensation of the warmth that pressed against her, and her eyes couldn't move away from Emily's chest, which was now a lovely shade of rose. Of course, she needed to see more, so Erin reached forward, her hands moving to unclasp Emily's bra, but the young woman gently pulled her hands back with a sly shake of her head, "Not yet."

She placed both of her hands on Erin's shoulders and pushed, forcing her back onto the sofa until she was lying down. The younger woman hovered over her, on her knees, leaning in so that just her mouth touched Erin's. The blonde's hands moved once more, trying to pull at her partner's hips, to peel away the layer of fabric that still separated them, but Emily lifted herself out of reach with a light chuckle.

"This isn't fair," Erin groaned, although a part of her enjoyed the denial, the prolonging of anticipation.

"This isn't about fair," Emily informed her, placing her knee between Erin's legs and moving forward so that it pressed against Erin's center, an action which did not fail to elicit a hiss from the lovely lady lying beneath her. She could feel the warm moisture soaking the fabric of her jeans, but she didn't care. There was a hunger, a want, a need, a new territory to discover, new lands to claim and lay waste to, this bridge was screaming to be burned, and where in all that did a silly pair of pants have any weight?

"Besides," she leaned forward again, her breath hot and heavy on Erin's neck, trying to keep her almost-childish glee in check. "You're the one who broke first."

This earned her an indignant huff from the other woman. Emily retaliated by applying more pressure with her knee, causing the section chief to slide forward with a slight moan.

"To the victor belong the spoils," the brunette whispered wickedly, her mouth landing just above Erin's left breast, her tongue slowly tracing its way down to the hardened circle of dusky flesh. Erin arched into her mouth, hissing again. She needed more—more to touch, more to feel, more pressure, more bite, more blood and more power. She grabbed Emily's head in both her hands and dragged her face back to meet her own, all teeth and tongue and frustration. Emily was laughing into her mouth now, but her body was lower, her skin was finally making contact again, the soft fabric of her bra rubbing against Erin's taunt and swollen nipples.

Erin tried to push the bra's straps off Emily's shoulders, but the brunette sat back, snapping her long, thin fingers around Erin's wrists and pinning them back, over the disheveled blonde halo splayed across the arm of the sofa. Erin attempted one last struggle, but it was useless.

"Now, now," Emily's voice was soothing, patronizing, with just a hint of something darker. "You'll get your turn soon enough. But right now, it's my turn."

She stretched over Erin's prone form, her long, lean torso and sculpted arms giving her the appearance of the feral predator that Erin most certainly saw her as. She bit her reddened bottom lip as she smiled down at her prey.

Erin opened her palms, making a gesture of surrender, and Emily's dark smile deepened.

"Good," she purred, dipping down to bite that lovely neck, which strained and panted under her mouth. She moved to Erin's right shoulder—the one she hadn't marked yet—and dragged her teeth across the flushed flesh, pushing her hot breath even more forcefully against the skin, feeling it tremble under the heat. Her fingers released the now-placid wrists of her captive, slowly trailing down the arms, down to the twin peaks rising and falling, lightly teasing and pinching Erin's nipples as her mouth stayed judiciously at the strip of skin between the two. They were raw and rough, and each tug sent a spark shooting through Erin's skin, but she didn't cry out, didn't flinch. She simply bit her lip and reminded herself that soon it would be her turn (_oh, dear girl, I'm a quick learner, I'm learning a thing or two, and when it's my turn, oh when oh when it's my turn, I'll repay this favor ten times over, this I promise, this I swear, I'll take it all back and more, I'll raze this village to the ground_).

Suddenly Emily's hands were moving again, slipping underneath Erin, pulling her up, driving her knee harder against that pounding mass of nerves and spark. The blonde gave a gasp, but it was quickly devoured by her partner, whose mouth crashed into hers as she claimed it for her own once more. Erin saw her opportunity and her hands were quicker this time, snaking around Emily's back, snapping apart the clasp before they could be stopped. Emily gave a growl of disapproval but it melted into a laugh—she should've known better than to think that Erin Strauss had truly surrendered.

Now it was Erin who sat back with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, arching one eyebrow as she waited for Emily's response. But the brunette could be a gracious champion, so she simply returned the smile and let the straps slide down her arms, the cups gently falling away. She tossed the offending item across the room with a playful flick of her wrist, which earned her another laugh from Erin, and for that laugh, for that brightness and relief in those beautiful grey-green eyes, Emily knew she'd do anything. Of course, she did not say such a thing—it's best to play your cards close to the chest (_even if it's bare_).

Erin's smile slowly faded as her eyes traveled below Emily's breasts, to the raised and reddened scar on her abdomen. Hesitantly, her fingers reached out, gently tracing the outline of the scar as she let out a soft, "Oh."

"Don't," Emily whispered softly, pulling the fingers away, and the look in her eyes formed the rest of the plea, the part she couldn't voice aloud (_don't look, don't see me as a victim, don't pity me, don't let this change how you want me_). Erin understood and simply nodded.

Erin pulled Emily back towards her, giving a light sigh of relief when she was met with the softness of Emily's skin. Emily reacted on sight, but Erin was a more tactile person—she needed to feel, to explore, to measure and test the depths with her fingertips, using them as her eyes. Her hands traced incohesive patterns on the broad, bare back, her lips began a pilgrimage from that lovely porcelain collarbone down to the small, attentive nipple, which she gently took in her mouth. She felt the younger woman stiffen, felt the muscles in her back tighten as Emily raised herself slightly. Her mouth never strayed from that sensitive flesh, but her hands traveled downward, slipping underneath the denim fabric and making contact with the bare skin of Emily's ass.

_She goes commando_, Erin thought wryly, and suddenly she wished that Emily would be staying long enough for her to test this theory, to see if she went sans panties every day (she'd never seen Emily at the office in a skirt, had she?). A wave of sadness washed over her as she realized that she would never know—after tonight, Emily Prentiss would walk out that door and into the wild, wide world, without a backward glance.

That thought was pushed rather forcefully out of her head by the dark-eyed beauty in question, who sent her slamming onto her back again. Emily's breathing was much heavier, her eyes were wild and the rosy stain had spread further across her once-marble skin, into her cheeks and across her shoulders.

"It's my turn," she growled, and for the briefest of seconds, Erin felt a glimmer of fear in the pit of her stomach. The younger woman sat back, taking Erin's left leg and placing her own shoulder under the bend in Erin's knee, taking a second to bite and suck the soft skin on the inside of her leg (and leave another mark, another flag on the map of her body). This time, Erin saw the mark, and since she was a conqueror herself, she understood the token, accepted it, burned even more with the realization that she had unwittingly been colonized by this new invader (_you can take my skin, but I'll have yours as repayment_).

* * *

_"Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will." ~Frederick Douglass_


	4. Part Four: Overflow

**Part Four: Overflow.**

_"__The greatest power is often simple patience.__" ~__E. Joseph Cossman_

* * *

From what Erin could remember of her brief encounter with Taosim (thanks to an equally brief boyfriend in college), she knew that the body was controlled by three tan t'iens. The most primal was the Ocean of Vitality, located just one and one-quarter inches below the belly button, a deep, dark, midnight ocean whose tides ruled baser functions, from sex drive to breathing. If such an ocean existed within Erin Strauss, it certainly was in a state of utter turmoil and tempest. The waters had overflown their base, seeping further down into her loins, and the tides eddied and boiled in little whirlpools, crashing against the jagged rocks of her pelvic bones and receding all the way down to her toes—water that felt like fire, water that filled her lungs, water that made her forget to breathe as it sifted and ebbed throughout her being.

But she could not blame her wayward tan t'ien for this—no, the fault was entirely of this woman with skin like moonlight (_the moon rules the tides, pulls them, directs their boundaries, affects their comings and goings, disturbs their balance, does it not?_). This infuriating woman who had so carelessly toppled over the ocean's bowl, spilling it out, never to be regathered again, who now seemed unwilling to at least attempt to soothe these troubled waters. This woman who refused to let Erin's hands push and seek like the tide, rolling over all that lovely smooth skin (_the moon rules the tides, but the tides never touch the moon_). This woman who tortured her in the most exquisite and horrible way.

Emily's fingernails dug into the flesh of Erin's outer thigh as her mouth worked the inner, slowly moving down to her center. She could feel the heat from Erin's core radiating on her cheek, could smell the heady, dark scent of her, and Emily fought to urge to plunge her conquistador tongue into those unexplored depths. That was something she did with lovers—Erin, whatever she may be, sprawled across this black leather sofa like some busty blonde from a dime-store detective novel, was not a lover. She was something darker, something more primal, something more tangible, with sharper edges and harder lines than a lover. Still, Emily did not resist the urge to blow one fluttering breath across the wetness, causing Erin to whimper and buck her hips involuntarily. The brunette turned to the other thigh, starting near her center and working her way back up to the knee.

Erin gave a frustrated jerk of her other leg, suppressing the urge to scream. She was on fire, _on fire_, didn't Emily understand that?

Emily simply gave a disapproving shake of her head, and Erin made another mental note to make sure that she had this woman absolutely screaming for release whenever her turn came around.

The younger woman placed her left shoulder underneath Erin's right knee, leaning forward until there was just the slightest strain in her muscle. She dipped one (_only one, sadly only one_) long finger inside Erin's pulsing core, her dark eyes locked onto the older woman's face, taking in every twitch, every sigh. With that one wet digit, she slowly traced the folds of Erin's labia, lazily creating a path to her clit. It was the lightest touch, and yet Erin felt as if she could jump out of her skin. Emily began making slow circles, applying more pressure, turning her head so that her lips could latch onto the indention next to Erin's knee, leaving another mark as her hand continued its steady assault.

Erin closed her eyes, but Emily's voice stopped her, "Look at me."

The section chief obeyed. She'd do anything, say anything, be anything, so long as it meant that this continued. With each movement of Emily's finger, another wave rippled through her body, melting her sinews and muscles and tauntly reforming them again.

Emily switched fingers, dipping her thumb into the pool of moisture at Erin's opening before placing it on the hardened bundle of nerves at her apex. She moved forward, her left hand securely planted above Erin's right shoulder, her dark eyes hovering over those beautiful grey orbs, taking in every movement as she pushed two fingers inside, spread them against Erin's walls, curled them to find the spot that made those lovely doll eyes widen, those lovely bruised lips form into a perfect _O_.

She added a third finger as her mouth lightly covered Erin's, muffling the warm groan that escaped the older woman's throat. It may be late, but if they got too loud, someone might still be around to hear them. And although Emily was in the business of incinerating past connections this evening, she certainly didn't want one of those to be the link between Erin Strauss and her position as BAU Section Chief.

Her blonde companion, however, did not seem to share this concern—in fact, she seemed to be getting louder, every push of Emily's hand elicited another cry (a lovely cry, a dainty cry, completely erotic and more than Emily could have hoped for, but a cry for another time, another place) and though Emily enjoyed knowing that she was the cause of such delicious distress, it could prove to be a problem.

"You need to keep quiet," Emily whispered warmly, trying to sound stern but failing miserably because she couldn't deny the effect that these little gasps and pleas were having on her. She could feel the pounding of her own blood, could feel the wetness building between her own legs, the heat building and seeping down into her thighs, climbing into her chest.

"Make me," Erin's voice was deeper again, breathy but still tinged with challenge. Her light eyes locked onto Emily's dark ones and if Emily wasn't already having her at this precise moment, it would make her want to take the blonde then and there all over again.

So, of course, Emily accepted the challenge. She pushed her fingers harder, deeper, further apart, pressed her thumb into that buzzing pounding bundle of nerves, slammed her mouth over the infuriating collection of tongue and teeth and lips that could anger and arouse her with a single smirk, plunging her tongue further in as the woman beneath her whimpered, trembled, quaked, sought purchase on her skin with well-manicured nails.

Erin was so close, caught in that delicious moment, the delirious suspension between agony and ecstasy, the breath before the final plunge, and part of her wanted to stay in this limbo forever. Emily moved in perfect rhythm, perfect control, and Erin actually considered trying to pull herself back from climax just to keep this moment alive. But that would be controlling, and it wasn't her turn to be in control. _Let's not think, remember?_

She felt it tumbling, building inside of her the like roar of the wave before it crashes into the rocks, and she simply pulled Emily closer to her, forcing the younger woman's mouth to cover her cries again.

It wasn't lightning or fireworks or some other blinding metaphor. It was steadier, heavier, more predictable. An avalanche perhaps. An avalanche she felt rumble over her entire body, slowing at the end to a peaceful lull.

This was the moment Emily Prentiss would normally lean forward, using her body to still and soothe her trembling lover's skittering breaths, covering her body with soft, tiny kisses and murmuring indecipherable words into her hair and skin. But Erin Strauss was not her lover. So Emily simply sat back on her heels and watched the older woman as she took a deep breath, focused those eyes (_now green, now pure green, catlike green_) on the ceiling. She carefully studied the classically featured face—no remorse, no doubt, no undying devotion (_so far, so good_).

A manicured hand (one with Emily's skin still beneath her fingernails) reached up, lightly and self-consciously fluffing the blonde mass of curls that were now completely disheveled. Feline eyes flicked back down towards her, dancing with mischief.

"Now it's my turn."

* * *

"_Passion is all but soft, it's not tender, it's violence to which you get hooked by pleasure." ~__Isabelle Adjani_

* * *

_***Author's Note: The bit about tan t'iens is gleaned from Barefoot Doctor's Handbook for the Urban Warrior. I've never seen another reference to the lower tan t'ien as the 'ocean of vitality' (except for in the aforementioned book), but I loved the imagery and couldn't resist.***_


	5. Part Five: Retaliation

**Part Five: Retaliation.**

"_I have been captured by what I chased." ~Marion Harper, Jr._

* * *

Emily forced herself to swallow, her mouth suddenly very dry and her tongue suddenly two sizes too large.

Erin Strauss was still laying back, her eyes fixed on Emily's face, a wicked smile curving around her bitten and bruised lips. She was back on the hunt, and though her initial hunger had been sated, her pulse now hummed with the song of the chase—she'd relinquished control, she'd given over her skin, allowing it to be bitten and pillaged and claimed by another, but now it was time to regain, to reclaim, to return the dark favor and extract more than was originally taken.

"Stand up." It was an order, deliciously couched in a purr.

Emily rose to her feet, keeping her eyes locked on Erin's face. The blonde still didn't move, still stayed stretched across the sofa, hand in her hair, looking like some languid classical painting. A smile danced at the corners of her eyes, this blonde Giaconda with the flushed skin and dark marks. She wore control and power well, Emily realized. However beautiful she might have been while she was falling apart underneath Emily, she was ten times more breathtaking now that she was back in charge.

"Take off your pants, Emily."

Stepping forward so that Erin could have a better view, she kicked off her shoes as she slowly unbuttoned her jeans, sliding them down her long legs. The difference in Emily's height due to the loss of her heels made Erin smile again (_she's already a tall woman, the shoes push her over six feet—she must like being able to tower over others_).

Now Erin moved, sitting up, leaning forward to place her hands on Emily's pale hips and pulling the woman towards her. With the tips of her fingers, she began to trace patterns over the ridges of the hipbones, lightly trailing up to the curve of her ribcage, ghosting around the edges of those rounded pale breasts, whose nipples were already pebbled and taunt. She grabbed Emily's upper arms and pulled her forward, bringing her mouth to that tender flesh, lightly nipping the underside of Emily's breast before tracing her tongue around the curve and up to the nipple. She heard the breath leave the brunette's lungs, felt the shift as Emily's knees wavered, and this only tightened her grip on the pale skin, feeling the muscles taunt beneath her fingers. Taking a moment to nuzzle the valley between, she then turned her attention to the other breast, this time using her teeth—an action that brought a hiss from Emily.

The blonde released Emily's forearms, snaking her arms around her waist and trailing her fingers down the line of Emily's spine, pushing deeper into the muscle tissue, leaving invisible fingerprints underneath the skin (_you left your mark, I'll leave mine_).

Her hands were moving again, mapping and charting the newly-discovered lands of Emily Prentiss' body, memorizing the taunt lines and soft ridges, learning the history of the scars (_the one on her breast, the one on her abdomen, oh that was left by Doyle, that was the scar that first took her from here, the scar that now compels her to leave again_) and the language of the skin (_a sigh when my tongue is here, a light flinch when pressure is applied there, this she likes, this she doesn't, this she likes very, very much_).

Emily was still standing, but her legs were braced against the sofa, her hands planted on the back of the furniture for support as she leaned forward. Her muscles began to burn faintly at the stress of the awkward situation, but she didn't dare move. Erin's right hand came up, grabbing a fistful of hair at the base of her neck and pulling her down further, bringing her neck to Erin's teeth. The force of the movement strained the muscles in the back of her thighs, and Emily gave a slight whimper at the combination of pain in her neck and her legs, off-set by the wonderful trill of Erin's mouth against her pulse point.

Erin's hands were moving again, down to Emily's ass, nails biting into flesh as she pulled her forward, into her lap. Emily placed her knees on either side of Erin's hips, sinking onto her thighs. Erin gave a slight shiver when she felt Emily's wetness on her skin—yes, there were definitely things that were different about being with a woman, but it was an intoxicating difference, one that surprised Erin with how much she thrilled to it. Emily sat there, flushed skin and expectant eyes, simply waiting for her next move—it was Erin's turn now, and she would play by the rules. She really was good at following orders, Erin though amusedly (funny, that Emily Prentiss should choose _now_ to be compliant and obedient, after six years of bullheaded belligerence).

With just enough weight to tease, Erin pressed her nails into the skin above Emily's knees, dragging them up to her hips, leaving fields of goosebumps in her wake. She pulled them back down, circling back to Emily's ass, pulling her further in, pulling her closer. Emily dipped lower, her nose almost touching Erin's, sharing her breath. The older woman took her compliant hands and placed them on her breasts, silently ordering Emily to return her caresses, which she dutifully obeyed.

Emily wanted to do so much more, to press against Erin's strong thigh, to roll into her and leave more marks on that delicious skin, but she'd had her turn and Erin was still learning, still searching—she was pretty sure that Erin had never been with another woman before, and she wanted to let the blonde fully experience it on her own terms.

Erin's fingers were now above her ass, pushing deep into the skin, massaging the area at the base of her spine, that bundle of nerves that snaked its way down to her loins. Emily felt herself contract in response, felt another rush of warmth and wetness as she bit her lip and smiled. Erin was a fast learner.

"Something amusing, Agent Prentiss?" Erin's voice was low, teasing. Her face was still close to Emily's, nose tip brushing against nose tip as she spoke.

Emily's grin widened, "I thought we were past last names and titles, ma'am."

"Not yet." There was a playfulness in the tone, but a hint of something darker danced at the edges. Emily shivered at the promise as Erin kissed her jaw, moving back up to her mouth and capturing it.

She pulled back, her light eyes (turning the color of a tempest again) focused intently on Emily's face as her right hand came back around, tentatively slipping over Emily's mound, dipping into those trembling folds.

Emily watched the expressions play across Erin's face like shadows on a wall as she slowly explored Emily's ridges and valleys (surprised at how familiar, how foreign they seemed), as she timidly pushed her fingers inside (just two, testing the slick walls, so cautious not to hurt her), as she searched for that spot on the anterior wall, her smile of satisfaction when she found it and Emily's muscles clenched around her fingers in response. She mimicked Emily's technique, dipping her thumb into the slick opening and pressing it against her clit. Emily let out another short moan, pressing her forehead against Erin's.

Erin's hand stopped moving, but her thumb remained firmly planted against the bundle of nerves to the point that it was almost painful. Her left hand, still at the base of Emily's spine, resumed its massaging motion, pushing harder into her flesh. Emily gasped and then held her breath, waiting for Erin to move again, to do something, _anything_.

She added a third finger, twisting them and pushing harder against Emily's g-spot, slightly rubbing her thumb back and forth across the swollen bud, but her fingers stilled again. There was pressure, but no friction, and Emily let out the breath that she'd been holding in a strangled groan of frustration. The left hand was still moving, the fingers still pressing her spine, but Emily still needed more.

"What's the matter, Agent Prentiss?" Erin purred, moving her mouth to the base of her neck, warming the skin with her breath before applying her tongue, swirling it on Emily's skin in the same circular pattern that Emily wished she'd apply elsewhere. Emily gave another whimper, and she felt Erin grin against her shoulder. Emily could feel every vein in her body pulsing, could feel the heat centered around Erin's fingers as it spread across her body like wildfire, building with each wave, with each deep stroke of Erin's hand into the flesh at her back.

Erin's cruel (_so cruel, so electric and wonderful and cruel_) fingers pressed harder, and she sat back, taking a moment to view her work so far. Emily's chest was quivering as she held her breath and silently prayed for some release, her lips pressed into a thin line, the blush seeping from her cheeks, down her long neck, across her chest in a lovely bloom. Her arms were back by her sides, fists clenched, knuckles white.

"Rather disappointing, isn't it?" She gave a smug smile. She slowly began to move her thumb again, but the fingers inside of Emily stayed maliciously still, "There could be so much more, and yet…."

Emily had tried not to move, to let Erin have control, but this was too much—she rolled forward, pushing against those cruel fingers, pulling back, rolling forward again with a little gasp of frustration.

Erin gave a low hum, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the dark-haired goddess falling to pieces on top of her. Emily Prentiss was practically writhing, begging, panting for her, her silver skin taking on a new sheen as her temperature rose with her frustration. She was getting her pound of flesh in a much more creative way than she'd first planned, but a good hunter learns to adapt to changes—especially when those changes are so much more rewarding. Emily was pushing down harder, trying to draw her further in, giving another whimper as Erin pulled away, taking her fingers further out of her tight canal.

Emily's hands were fluttering now, pulling at Erin's hair, dragging her closer, crying and clawing and panting and needing, needing, _needing_. Erin was utterly fascinated by this change in persona—ever since Emily had refused to snitch on Hotchner, she'd been cold, distant, rude (almost aggressively so) towards Erin, and so she'd become a flat character in the eyes of the section chief, all blank stares and uncooperative responses. But the creature in her lap was three-dimensional, warm and wet and quivering, a whirlwind of emotions and sensations, something more powerful and more vivid than the Emily Prentiss that Erin had known.

And this new being was becoming very impatient.

She gave a growl of frustration, pressing as much of her body against Erin's as possible, her voice harsh and ragged in Erin's ear, "Stop. Teasing."

"You made me wait, remember?" Erin replied silkily, although she did push her fingers further in, feeling her own rush of heat and moisture as she felt Emily tighten around her again.

"I wasn't this cruel," Emily retorted.

"No, you weren't," Erin seemed proud of this (_it's a win, an admission of victory, a capitulation_). With a grin, she began to move her hand, moving in rhythm with Emily's hips. She couldn't help but throw Emily's words back at her, "Of course, I don't want you to think that I was ungrateful."

"Ironic bitch," the brunette panted. This earned her another breathless laugh from her former boss. She gave a laugh, too, grateful for the glorious friction, for the steady movements inside of her that only intensified the shiver building in the caverns of her pelvis, rumbling through her hips and thighs like the first tremor before an earthquake.

Erin's left hand never stopped her deep probing into the small of Emily's back, and her right hand now kept time with it as Emily's hips fell into sync as well. The brunette leaned forward, trying to stay in contact with as much of Erin's skin as possible. Erin's mouth moved to her right shoulder, nipping and tasting as much flesh as she could as Emily rose and fell. Emily's hands were at Erin's breasts, squeezing, grinding, pushing out her frustration and need on that soft, reddened flesh. The blonde's teeth came down harder on the pale skin, eliciting a hiss.

Emily suddenly became very quiet, her hands stopped, her movement slowed as she began to ride out the first wave of her orgasm—all of her concentration went into the shift of her hips, milking each push, each roll, each stroke of Erin's fingers, each press of her thumb against the deliciously pounding bundle of nerves. Erin followed her lead, slowing her hands, pushing deeper, slower, keeping her mouth anchored to Emily's collarbone, letting her take what she needed at her own pace.

She felt the quivering, felt the sudden clench, the rush of wetness as Emily's head snapped up, arching her back as her mouth opened in a silent _O_. She drove harder, pushed her fingers as far apart as she could against the tightened walls, pressing into Emily's clit as hard as she could—this was the final act, the moment of her fangs on the tender pulsing jugular, the tiger's claws in the rabbit's flesh, the hunter's mercy in ending the prey's pain.

Emily never made a sound, her chest fluttering with an unvoiced cry, her hands pressing into Erin's upper arms (_another mark, another token I'll leave under your skin_) as her orgasm came to a crashing finale. She gave one last small gasp, pulling up before slowly sinking down again, leaning forward, forehead resting against the back of the sofa, mouth open and dragging deep, heavy breaths against Erin's shoulder.

Erin slowly withdrew her fingers, resting her right hand on Emily's thigh as she quietly traced the line of her spine with her left. For some reason, she felt as if Emily was drifting from her, drifting somewhere sad and cold, so she pressed the woman closer to her. She gave a soft hum, the vibration in her chest crossing into Emily's, grounding her, bringing her back.

Erin had gotten her pound of flesh, had been true to her nature, had fulfilled whatever instinct that pushed her this far, and that was justice, in her mind. But being just was not the same as being cruel—in fact, it was the opposite. Justice was supposed to be the fulfillment of what one needed, what one deserved. Emily needed something softer from her now, something gentle to guide her back on her way, a kind smile before the final separation. Erin could give her that.

Emily's head nestled in the crook of Erin's neck, her fingers tracing patterns on the freckled skin of her shoulder and breast. She didn't speak, so Erin didn't either. She simply waited, the soothing motions of her hands slowly bringing Emily Prentiss back down to this little corner of Earth as she slowly regained her skin (_You took mine and I took yours but I can't keep it_).

* * *

_"Oh, what have you done? __My body changes in your presence, __l__ike some electric charge__ u__nbound in static on the pavement. __I've been wasted by tasmanian devils that tore right through me. __I've been dead like a dried up desert of thorns that dig into me. When your body is next to mine, like it has been before,__  
__our pheromones fight it out and no one is keeping score." ~Nico Vega, Lightning_


	6. Part Six: The Tiger at Dawn

**Part Six: The Tiger at Dawn.**

_"Everything is closing, but tonight, we'll stay awhile...And if this darkness lingers, I'll fall to you just like a child. Pretty thing, I've got you, right where this trouble lands—with reckless burning, I have been charged again." ~Jesse Sykes, Reckless Burning_

* * *

Emily regained her composure and sat back again.

There was a moment as the two women simply looked at one another, the reality of it all sinking in.

"Well, that was a hell of a going-away present," Emily quipped, and Erin immediately began to laugh, all of the nerves and uncertainty disappearing once more.

"That was a hell of a resignation letter," she replied.

Emily smiled, taking a moment to brush back a lock of Erin's hair with her left hand—the hand with the band-aid, the hand that started it all. She placed a kiss on that smooth forehead and pushed off, standing to collect her clothing.

Erin rose behind her, taking a moment to look back at the sofa and blush at the wet spots left on the cushions. She flipped them over, hiding the evidence—she would clean them by hand tomorrow, but for tonight, they could stay.

"There's some, um, Kleenex," Erin grabbed the box and offered it to Emily, who gratefully took some and began to gingerly clean away the stickiness on her thighs. Erin did the same, tossing the evidence in her waste bin and smiling ruefully at the fact that whomever came to empty it would have no idea that they were throwing away the last bits of physical proof that this strange thing had ever occurred (_another story untold, another moment unnoticed, the world keeps turning and hearts keep burning_). She could never tell anyone, and Emily would never tell anyone, and this moment, this breath, this feeling would go forever unknown. It was a strange thing, knowing she'd just written a chapter in her life's story that would never be read. She didn't regret it (regret wasn't productive, regret hindered performance, regret was a weakness) but she felt a slight pang at the fact that it was well and truly over.

"Nice tattoo." There was a smile in Erin's voice. "I didn't really notice it before."

The brunette raised her right arm, allowing her former boss a better look at the small Arabic scribble with a flower blooming out of it, just three inches below her arm pit, on the rib. "A political statement in my late teens. My mother was thrilled."

"Odd place for ink." Erin commented.

"Not the oddest." Emily stepped forward, hooking her bottom lip between her fingers and flipping it inside-out, so that Erin could see the black lines of another tattoo on the inside.

Erin gave a slight grimace, "Why the hell would you get one on the inside of your lip?"

"Because it's a secret," came the simple reply. She gave another small shrug, "You're the only person here who knows about it."

"What's it say?" Erin stepped forward, hoping for another glimpse. "It looks Latin, but my Catholic school grammar is a bit rusty."

This earned her a smile from the younger woman (_of course she went to Catholic school_).

"It's a secret."

Erin simply smiled. She understood the need to have secrets, the need to have some part of your life that was simply and truly your own—she also understood that regardless of what just happened, they were not at the level of sharing those kinds of secrets.

Emily slipped into her jeans again, hiding a smile as she felt the cool wetness on her knee (a piece of Erin, a small token, a physical reminder that this really just happened). Emily held up Erin's bra with a grin, "I think I might like to keep this. A souvenir."

The blonde snatched it from her with a light shake of her head and a feigned eye-roll. They finished redressing in silence, soft smiles and unvoiced thoughts.

"Could I walk out with you?" Emily asked, moving to the door but not actually opening it. Erin looked up, surprised, but she nodded in acquiescence.

"Just let me grab my things," she moved back behind her desk, picking up her bag and depositing her glasses in their case. She tried again to smooth her wayward locks into something a little more presentable, although she was fairly certain it was a lost cause. She made her way to the door, but Emily stopped her as she reached for the handle.

"I just…I need you to know that I'm not the kind of person who normally does this kind of thing," Emily said quietly. "I don't want you to think that I ever had any kind of relationship with any of the other agents. I'm not—"

"I know." Erin said quietly. She leaned forward again, her left index finger hooking Emily's belt loop and pulling the younger woman closer to her again. Her expression stilled as her green eyes (_yes, green, they were pure green now_) locked onto Emily's mouth. As if in a trance, she gently placed her fingertip at the corner of Emily's lips, tracing their outline with a slow softness that made the brunette's chest tighten again.

Those light eyes flicked upwards to meet dark ones again, breaths held and forgotten as the world stopped for another beat. Then Emily shifted forward slightly, slowly opening her mouth to take Erin's fingers in, tasting her own juices on the pads that had left deep red tracts on her skin, that had pillaged and plundered and ransacked the defenses of her world, that had helped her hold the match to the quivering bridge, dragging her headfirst into the flames.

Erin's fingers withdrew and were replaced by her mouth, her tongue searching out the salty tang of Emily's arousal, their lips both sharing the taste.

"It's our secret, Emily," she whispered, once they'd finally drawn apart.

"So we're back to first names?" Her dark brows arched playfully.

Her companion smirked and opened the door with a flourish. "For now."

They didn't promise to keep in touch (Emily wasn't that cruel, Erin wasn't that stupid). They didn't talk about it on the elevator, or on the long walk across the parking garage, or ever again, even when they did meet at the rare government function or fundraising gala.

Erin simply stopped next to her SUV, giving a quick two-finger salute and a knowing grin, hip popped out like some USO Poster Girl. Emily had never seen her act so sassy, so comical, and she gave a laugh, a true deep laugh from the bottom of her stomach. She returned the gesture and shook her head in wonder at the events of the evening. They both got in their vehicles, took a deep breath, and went their separate ways.

* * *

Emily went back to her apartment, back to the makeshift home that was already half-packed in boxes because she'd never felt comfortable enough to fully unpack. She took off her clothes, tossing her top and blazer in the clothes hamper. She hesitated when she came to the jeans. She tossed them aside. Maybe tomorrow she'd wash them. Not tonight.

The next morning, she noticed something in the mirror when she got out of the shower. There was a deep red mark, just under the swell of her right breast. She smiled softly, touching it reverently. She traced her fingers over the light dots forming over her biceps—one for each of Erin's pristinely-manicured fingers. So Erin had also left her mark.

When it disappeared several days later, she actually missed it.

* * *

Erin went home, to her quiet little house in her quiet little suburb, to her color-coordinated rooms of carefully arranged objets d'art and sleeping children and the bed that seemed too large now that her husband wasn't sleeping in it. She took off her shoes at the door, padding quietly into the laundry room, where she immediately put her clothes in the washing machine, finding a housecoat to throw over herself as she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She slowly removed the robe, studying her reflection, her face flushing again at the sight of Emily's marks across her chest, her shoulders, her torso—Emily had been careful enough not to place them on her arms or lower legs, nowhere that would show when Erin was clothed. She mapped and catalogued them carefully, these tokens, these settlements established by that lovely mouth, these sites of passionate pilgrimage.

The next morning, she was sore, but she didn't care. She simply smiled.

* * *

The taste of whiskey still sends a soft warmth through Emily's body. Sometimes Erin looks over at the black leather sofa and a smile plays on her lips (the kind you use for lovers, for delicious secrets and passionate memories).

It would be easy to tumble into the rabbit hole of regret and longing, to over-romanticize those heated moments, to paint them with a rosy hue and pine for their loss. But Erin is practical and practical people don't pine. And Emily learned a long time ago to accept the fleeting nature of relationships, because that was how the story of her life had been built—a patchwork quilt of sweet moments and warm touches, from different hands at different times in different ways, sewn together with the thread of memory, becoming a comfortable thing she pulls over her mind in life's stormy times. Some pieces are larger than others, some appear in patterns, some are small pieces with no mates, no patterns, no connections. She doesn't know if this is a piece that will be forever without a match, she doesn't think she wants to know.

They move forward, move apart, move in the directions their lives were meant to go, down paths they wanted and chose many moons ago. And neither one regrets it for a single moment.

After all, the tiger doesn't feel remorse for being a tiger.

* * *

_"The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you—it's strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd need somebody like you. I never dreamed that I'd know somebody like you." ~James Vincent McMorrow, Wicked Game_

* * *

**_*Author's Note: To my ain true love-I know the secret of the tattoo on your lip, and its meaning, and it's mine to keep. Like my love is yours.*_**


End file.
